A/N: Still writing...
I usually don't do that, but this chapter is dedicated to my uncle, my godfather, who is in hospital, in critical conditions with very little hope for improvement...
I pray for you...
Thanks for judybear for corrections
Chapter 67: Foreshadowing
"If you go there, you will die."
"Then I die. But I will not go down easily, and I will not go down alone. "
A sorry mess.
Inspector Javert motionlessly stared down at the bodies that were still lying in the street, miraculously untouched by the crowd that had apparently formed directly after the incident, and was currently disbanded by the policemen he had fortunately thought to bring with him.
A sorry, sorry mess.
There was not much to be said about the manner of death of the young men lying in front of him. The immense puddle of blood, originating from the blonde's neck, but spreading out over several meters of dirty pavement, relieved Javert of the necessity to turn him around to find a clear cut over the throat of the man, killing him in instants.
The other one had been less fortunate. He lay curled up on the floor, the stomach wound had still killed him relatively quickly – stomach wounds were nasty things that could lead up to days of suffering, if the victim was unlucky – but there obviously had been pain and enough time for the young man to realize what was going on.
With a sigh, the inspector crouched down beside the dark-haired youth and fully turned him to his back. The dead weight did not resist, and a face was revealed, that still carried the remnants of a life barely begun, uplifted nose, plump lips, all in all, the face of a boy, not a man. Jacques Virille, no doubt. He knew him well. A troublemaker of the worst sort, young and reckless and never far from the next brawl.
The manner of his death was clear, the reason not quite so, but as Javert inspected the corpse, looking for clues that had as of now escaped his notice, he saw a fluttering pass over the still featurs of the boy, the tinyest of movements that drew his attention infallibly.
And infallibly, he found himself staring into the reopened eyes of Jacques Virille. A bloody hand came up to grasp his wrist in a brutal grip, closing in around his flesh and bones mercilessly.
He flinched, as the corpse – no, the man – below his hand began to convulse, cough, shake, and fresh blood ran from his lips, coloring them a bright, burning red.
"You killed me", rasped the boy with eyes black and cold. "You killed me."
Javert was about to contradict, to proclaim his statement ridiculous, but there was a knife in his hand, cold and red with the blood of his victim, and he knew that he was wrong and the others had always, always been right.
Icy terror gripped him, and for a wild moment he considered hiding the weapon but he remembered that he was a better man than that and raised himself, ignoring the coughing, dying man at his feet to face his judgement.
And found laughter, menacing, cool laughter.
"Gypsy", the crowd assembled called, and he shook his head, violently, denying this half-truth without success, for they cried "Gypsy", and "Thief" and "Little Beggar", and all the names he knew and had fled from, so often and always.
"I'm not", he screamed, his voice booming, but his hands were betraying him, three colorful balls wandering through them in the pattern that only the Roussata knew, the pattern that an uncle of him had taught an unsuspecting boy, in another life that he tried to forget, but his hands remembered and played, and played and betrayed his biggest secret.
"No", something within screamed and cried, but the crowd did not listen, and tomatoes came flying, and raw eggs, and a cacophony of laughter and curses threatened to swallow him whole.
Giubet had hesitated for a moment before he finally decided to gently rouse his superior from slumber. It was not the first time that Javert had spent a night over papers and investigations, and not the first time that Guibet came to find him as he had now – bent over the desk, the cheek on his papers, fast asleep.
Javert could sleep like the dead when exhaustion took him, and in all sorts of places comfortable and uncomfortable. Giubet had been his aide for long enough to know of this habits of his, and he knew better than to disturb him in this state. Undoubtedly, something had kept him up until very late and he had finally succumbed to exhaustion, probably in the small hours of the morning.
He had reacted as he always did under these circumstances – by ignoring it and going about his business as carefully and unobtrusively as possible. He had started on the paperwork that Javert had given him to sift through, quietly taking notes while his superior still slept, but now the matter had gotten out of his hands, and it was not to be helped.
Not one to delay the inevitable, Giubet uttered a small cough. Javert seemed close to wakefulness, shifting uneasily in his sleep, but it took two more of the carefully measured sounds to finally see the inspector waking up, pushing himself up suddenly into a sitting position.
He looked around, disoriented obviously, blinking against the bright morning light that flodded the office unhindered. He looked slightly disheveled, his hair standing at odd angles and his eyes swollen from sleep, but he regained some semblance of wakefulness quickly. The gesture, with which he rubbed over his lids to chase away remnants of fatigue still seemed slightly undignified and off-foot, but his voice was strong and cool as ever when he demanded:
"What is it, Giubet?"
"I am sorry to wake you, Inspector", Giubet answered. "But the prefect would like to see you."
This woke him up very efficiently. Javert shot up and stood, his gaze focusing on Giubet with the disquieting intensity he was capable of. At times, his aide felt reminded of a predator, calm and deceptively quiet in repose, only to explode at the sight of opposition, danger or crime in the most indomitable way. In the beginning, it had intimidated him, but Giubet had learned a few things about his superior officer since then. Javert was many things, but at the end, he was just. His perception of status, rank, care and responsibility was clear cut, a world of sharp lines and edges, and this was something that suited Giubet only too well. He liked knowing the ground he stood on, and Javert had always ensured this for him.
Knowing that, and being certain of his errand, Javert would not intimidate him any more.
"I apologize for the inconvenience", he said none the less, for propriety's sake, and Javert nodded, somewhat absent-mindedly, opening the ribbon that held his hair at his neck to redo the braid, restoring order to his appearance in a matter of minutes.
"Never mind, Giubet", the inspector answered predictably. "Do you know the reason for this summoning?"
"I am afraid not", Giubet answered. "It seemed rather sudden I fear. But as far as I can tell, there have been a number of summons over the morning." Which indicated rather a common occurrence in the city instead of a private or more focused matter, that would concern the Inspector more personally. "I have not been able yet to learn the reason."
Javert nodded absent-mindedly. He still seemed tired and Giubet wondered just how much sleep he had gotten during the last night. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and straightened his waistcoat before he grabbed his coat and stepped past his aide purposefully.
"Thank you Giubet", he replied absent-mindedly. "In the mean time, during my absence, I would appreciate you collect all information that you can find on a character going by the name of Babet. He should be connected in some way or other to the organization that calls itself Patron-Minette. I need names, whereabouts, possible activities. Crimes, both those he's been convicted for and those that he has been suspected of."
Giubet nodded.
"Of course", he answered and watched Javert stalk off in the direction of the office of Henri Gisquet, before he started his own way to the archives. The work he had been given would be more than enough for a single day, although he hoped that Javert in the end would not take that long.
Whatever the reason may be, an audience with Gisquet seldomly allowed for good news.
The sun, hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, was moving towards its highest point, when Lamarin, Bossuet, Joly and Barilou strolled through the city towards the cemetery Montparnasse that would see the funerals of Evariste Galois and Ramon Deleric. They had met at the new hiding place that Enjolras and Éponine had organized and subjected the premises to a thorough inspection.
It seemed to fulfil its promises in every aspect, providing a certain measure of comfort, secrecy, protection, and many, many watchful eyes. While this certainly would prevent another Corinthe incident from happening, Bossuet could not help harbouring some worries when it came to the price they might finally pay for this. Clearly, the watchful eyes were not only aiming at keeping unwanted visitors out, and he doubted that there was a word spoken in these walls that would not reach Cortez' ear, as soon as someone deemed it important enough.
A dangerous gamble, and an arrangement that was far from ideal. But the previous day had shown that many of them had lost their home bases in a way or other. The Corinthe had been a horrific example that no innkeeper could shake easily.
And so, Cortez' alternative was probably all they had. And they would need to make the best of it.
They had prepared the room to accommodate them after the funeral was over and done with and now were on their way, not with time to spare, but early enough not have a need for hurry.
They had just turned into the Latin Quarter, making their way towards the Ile de la Cite, when Stéphane interrupted their easy conversation with a much less pleasant observation of his own.
"There… may be something you should know", he began, out of the blue, slowing his step as he threw a quick gaze around him.
Marc Lamarin stopped in his stride as well and frowned, his questioning gaze wandering over his comrade.
"This does not sound good", he answered, obviously worried. "Another type of trouble?"
Stéphane hesitated before he answered: "Maybe." Bossuet realized that this was the first time, that they were given the exquisite experience of Stéphane feeling unwell in his own skin, and it did not suit him very well. "Be that as it may… I would appreciate this news to remain in this group for now."
Lamarin's eyes darted around quickly between him, Stephane, Bossuet and Joly.
"Why us?"
"Because", Stéphane explained, "I trust you not to jump to rash conclusions too quickly. I would really rather first investigate than shoot when it comes to this."
"So no one tell Enjolras", Bossuet could not help commenting. "Or Courfeyrac. Or Bahorel. Or… well, I see your point."
Stéphane did not rise to the bait and ignored his attempt at levity, staying serious in his answer.
"Or Jacques."
"It's about Joseph, then." Marc Lamarin, Bossuet had realized a while ago, was as sharp as a knife, and as the days passed, he seemed more confident to show it. Stéphane, confirming the suspicion, nodded.
"It is. And after what happened when you told Jacques what you found in Joseph's apartment, I'm not sure I'd like a repetition of the spectacle any time soon, at least not before we know what is going on."
Bossuet had not been present for the incident that Stéphane mentioned, but in all honesty he did not need to. The anger of Jacques at the well founded suspicion of Joseph as a traitor to the group he considered as his would certainly have been formidable. Which, in full, also explained Stéphane's unease. His dealings with the Cougourde had taught Bossuet, that the question of loyalty to either Jacques or Joseph was an important one within their society – and it was clear with whom Stéphane's loyalties could be found.
Dimly, he wondered if Lamarin had made a decision on the matter yet.
"Of course you have the promise", Joly answered before any of the others could, nervously pushing his spectacles up again. "A quarrel is the last thing we need."
"I hoped you'd see it that way"; Stéphane said with palpable relief. "Because I really think that we should find out what's going on."
"Much as I am honored to be part of such a selective chosen few", Bossuet intercepted, briefly lifting his hat in mock salute, "Curiosity is starting to get the better of me. Do you only have great announcements to make or is there an actual news to this story?"
Stéphane's gaze was part reprimand, part amusement, and thus about the reaction Lesgle had been aiming for.
"I think I've seen Joseph", he finally spilled without further diversions. "Actually, I am quite sure."
That was a surprise, and Bossuet felt his brows raise in astonishment.
"So he is in the city after all?" he confirmed the suspicion that they had harboured already for a while. "I was wondering."
"Are you certain?" Joly stepped into the discussion. "From what I gather, Armand, when he gave you similar news, was in quite an uncertain and unstable condition – the mind is prone to playing tricks in the final hours of life to the best of us. But it is confirmed now?"
"As good as", Stéphane answered. "I went to the funeral of his friend. The one that died of cholera. It was yesterday, and I decided to take a chance. If Joseph was in town, it was quite probable that he would show his face."
"And he did?" Lamarin, ever the junior lawyer, pressed for confirmation.
"I am quite certain", Stéphane answered. "I stayed on the sidelines and kept watch, and so did he, if I interpret correctly what I saw. He realized I had seen him about a second after I had recognized his face, and he did not stay for a discussion."
"He fled", Marc Lamarin precised. "Did you try to follow?"
There was a fine smile on Stéphane's features.
"I did, indeed", he confirmed. "I followed him towards the river, but I lost him on the docks. However, the docks are a good area indeed if one intends to hide. Much coming and going, old buildings and new, and many nooks and edges for a man to lose himself in."
"Sounds like personal experience", Bossuet could not help commenting, but Stéphane, of course, was not baited so easily.
"I know my way around", he commented without going into further detail and let the information hang in the air without any further elaboration. For all his friendliness, Stéphane did know how to guard his secrets.
"So it is confirmed that he is in the city", Joly mused. "Which leaves the question why he is hiding from us?"
"Or why he wrote that list in the first place. Or why he was at the fair in Issy when we were attacked." Marc Lamarin slowly shook his head. "This story remains ever more mysterious, I am afraid."
"There is no helping it", Bossuet summarized the discussion. "I guess we need to talk to him. It is as simple as that. Find him and talk to him. It's only him who can give the answers."
Stéphane ran his hands through his hair uneasily.
"I guess there is no other way than this", he confirmed. "I… don't want to believe that he really had a hand in all this. It does not sound like Joseph. Yes, he… was secretive about his dealings, but who isn't nowadays? He is a revolutionist, in his heart of hearts. I cannot believe that he has simply betrayed us all."
"There are many ways of betrayal", Joly reminded him gently. "Just think of Picpus."
Of the snake that they had nurtured on their own bosom. Of the man that they had trusted and that had killed so many of them.
"Maybe", Stéphane nodded. "That would at least make some kind of sense."
"How about redemption?" Marc Lamarin speculated, voice almost off-handed in its casuality "He made a mistake, involuntary betrayal, and now he tries to right his wrongs again?"
"Interesting thought", Bossuet could not help commenting, again astonished how far the man in front of him had come from the boy, who had been paralyzed with fear when they had met in the streets of Paris a few days ago. "One to pursue once this whole funeral is over."
"We will get to the bottom of this." Somehow, Joly sounded reassuring in his easy optimism. "I'm sure we will. As soon as the funeral is over, we will get to the bottom of this."
A plan, Bossuet thought. That at least.
They made their way mostly in silence.
Éponine was not sure what she had expected – if she had even expected anything – of this march from the Corinthe down across the Seine, through the Latin Quarter and towards the cemetery of Montparnasse, but this, she thought was certainly not it.
It was a grim, silent march that carried nothing of the raucous, revolutionary spirit that she had seen at so many assemblies conducted by Enjolras and his friends. Conversations were hushed and determined, and they resembled less an army marching, and more a river, flowing almost lazily, swirling here and there, and yet all drifting into the same direction. Not a group, not a crowd, just a collection of individuals, coincidentially walking the same path.
She was not sure if the less observant citizens of Paris would even realize that something was afoot, would be able to recognize the method in the seeming chaos of their steps, but if any connected the information in front of their eyes, only few did react.
Some took a detour, quickly stepping out of their way. Others joined in; but it seemed as if the spirit of their march defied any critizism, and so there were no sneers, no shouts of those disagreeing with what they intended, if they even knew or guessed.
They made their way mostly in silence.
Éponine walked next to Enjolras, whose gaze was fixed on something that only he could see. His speech had been peculiar, so very different from any of the others that Éponine had ever heard him give. A variation on the subject of love, delivered by Enjolras, of all people.
And yet… these days were changing them all. Éponine was barely sure she would recognize herself in the mirror today and still see the gamine of a few days ago. How could Enjolras, as unmoveable as he would seem, be completely unfazed by this whirlwind of events?
Now change was one thing, but Éponine was well aware that what Enjolras was radiating was pain. She was not sure what had connected him to the man who died – what little information she had to go on suggested little affection – but the grief was palpable and something within her felt sorry for it.
But he was Enjolras, and his pain and thoughts were his own. And so, his words still dancing through her thoughts, she continued her stride at his side, calm, determined and steady.
"Enjolras!"
A clear voice cut both through her and his solitary thoughts, like a ray of sun breaking through the clouds.
She had all but forgotten about her little brother – not because he was easy to forget, but because he excelled at slipping from view and thought when he wanted to – but now he was back, two other boys in tow, and clearly demanding attention.
Enjolras flinched, torn out of his thoughts, but his gaze cleared quickly and he looked down at the boys, two larger and a smaller one trailing behind.
"Yes?"
"They chased them away!" That was Pucet, the smallest of Gavroche's little family, all young importance, excitement and pride. "They just came in and chased them away."
Enjolras frowned.
"Whom?"
"The boys", Pucet repeated, as if talking to a smaller child. "Who were discussing so much."
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Enjolras was not usually patient, and today he was certainly not at his best, but the three boys were not easily intimidated. Gavroche, however, knowing him best of the three, pushed forward his second comrade in the hope of a more coherent story.
"The police", Jean began, "that's what Pucet meant. They raided an assembly of the friends of Evaristide Galois. They were meeting to prepare the funeral, but the police chased them apart instead."
Enjolras frowned, suddenly all attention again, and Éponine exchanged a quick gaze with her brother. This was ill news indeed, but it would probably have been too much to hope for no police intervention at all during the funeral.
"How bad is it?" she cut straight to the heart of the matter, facing both Jean and Gavroche, who finally took over, being the most experienced in delivering a senseful report.
"I don't really know yet. Jean and Pucet heard that an assembly had been disbanded, a few of them have been taken to prison for the remainder of the night."
"For planning to honor a friend"; Enjolras pressed out icily, tension and anger wandering through his posture with ease. "Again oppression shows its ugly face. A story we all know already." He let out a disgusted snort before he turned back to the gamins, now facing again the problem at hand. "What about today?"
Jean shrugged.
"I would expect trouble. I've heard nothing really specific, but there's many policemen about, and many people who try very much not to look like policemen."
Pucet chuckled.
"They're not very good at hiding", he informed his audience. "Not like we are."
Enjolras gave a quick, grim nod.
"If this is how it will be, then so be it." He crossed his arms in front of him. "If wind they sow, storm they will harvest."
Something in the cold, determined tone of his voice made Éponine shiver.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Very easy", Enjolras answered without even looking at her. His gaze went far off, where, behind houses upon houses, must be the cemetery of Montparnasse, where the funeral would take place. "I would have preferred a different route. I would have preferred to wait until we all are ready and assembled. I would have had the funeral of General Lamarque be the flame that unites us all, but if today is the day we take the stand I will not back off."
There was a fire burning in his eyes, a dark, grim fire that felt as if she were looking into what was left of the unfortunate wine shop once called the Corinthe. He seemed more distant than he had during the last days, almost disconnected from her, from the world. With a flash of bitter intuition, Éponine realized that in this moment, he would not care for his own life, his own safety. In the midday light in the Paris streets, Enjolras was all ready and prepared to go up in flames and waste away in pursuit of his purpose.
Éponine wondered, if he was wishing for revolution or wishing for death. In the first days of their acquaintance, she had been astonished by the conviction with which this rich boy carried his purpose, but Corinthe had changed him, and there was something more bitter, something darker in his eyes now. He had been wounded deeply, and in the manner of a wild predator hurt he turned towards everything he could find, soothing pain with activity.
For all his purpose, Enjolras gave all the impression of a man who had lost his way.
For what little she knew of revolution, Éponine knew a lot about the people. Paris was a fickle lady, following her own shifts and turns, and the city had seen many upheavals and revolutions, riots and brawls. The people of the city were excitable, so much was certain, and this was something that stood in their favor, but while General Lamarque was a name known by many, Éponine herself – who took pride in being well informed – had only learned of Evariste Galois yesterday.
He was a man to bring the students to the streets, yes, but she doubted that this particular spark would catch. And thus, Enjolras with his intent was walking into destruction.
"Meaning no offense, Enjolras", she began, careful, but sure. "But I'm not sure that's wise."
A muscle in his jaw twitched and he turned to her slowly, focusing on her with the darkness of his blue gaze.
"I beg your pardon?" His voice was soft, but dangerous, but Éponine had known things much more lethal than him, and she did not waver easily.
"I know you don't want to hear it, but I still will say it. You told me to speak up, so I will."
Again, the muscle twitched, but he stayed silent, even in anger and loss true to his word once given. There was no invitation in his manner – quite the contrary – but Éponine had not needed an invitation to step in for a long while and continued none the less.
"The people won't die for Evariste Galois", she said, chosing words as simple as possible. "Maybe the people will die for General Lamarque. I'm not sure. But they surely won't die for a young student."
Enjolras' brows rose slowly.
"What makes you say that?" he asked coolly, but she had managed to hold his gaze, so she could at least still take pride in knowing she had his full attention. Which was what she needed.
"Because they don't know him. He was a young student, a mathematician, and, hell, that's even all I know about him. Oh yes, and he died in a duel. I know you valued his opinion, I know he probably suffered for your… our cause, but I know it because you told me and I have no reason to doubt your word."
"So we will tell everyone today as well"; Enjolras remarked off-handedly, but Éponine shook her head.
"You can't tell them all. And they won't all trust you like I do. All the fury they will have is what you inspire in them. Won't it be better if they have some fury of their own?"
Enjolras pondered this for a moment before he answered.
"I do not think that this is any of my decision, anyhow"; he commented with an almost off-handed shrug. "These things have a dynamics of their own. If a shot falls, then things will get into motion, and it will be out of my hands." He seemed satisfied at that prospect and unwilling to hide it.
"Wrong", Éponine cut through his illusions. "Sorry, but wrong. People follow your lead. People look to you. Your example matters, it will always matter. You, your friends, you are leaders, and it shows. You may not be able to make them all die for Evariste Galois. I don't think you can. But you can make them live to fight another day, because in the end, people are cowards. They'll run if someone runs in front of them, leading them on – and a few people chasing them from behind wouldn't go amiss either – but if you don't, there's a fair chance they won't either."
Enjolras snorted in disgust.
"I wish you would stop this nonsense", he said. "I don't matter. One man does not matter."
"Oh", she gave back, shaking her head, "but you do. You don't want it, I know, but you have no choice." She stepped a little closer to him, the crowd around them – as if to confirm her words – slowing as they had seen Enjolras stop. "You can go on denying it, but it won't make it any less true. And you know it. You've seen it. He's shown you, if nothing else."
Something dangerous flashed through his eyes.
"Don't you dare…", he hissed, but she had gone too far and interrupted what he said.
"… to tell you the truth?" She shook her head. "I wouldn't have thought you a person to run away from that…"
The dangerous simmering turned to rage, and he took a quick step towards her, hands gripping her shoulders painfully, and he gave her a quick, almost brutal shake before she regained her footing and pushed against his arms, keeping him at bay with a mixture of force and determination.
"You are desecrating his memory", he hissed in fury.
"I am saving it", Éponine gave back not giving in any ground. "What are you looking for, Enjolras? Revolution? Or just death?"
He opened his mouth to deny it in a spurt of anger, but Éponine raised a brow at him and somehow this had him hesitate, stop for a moment, and she rushed on, not wanting to loose momentum and realize what exactly she was doing here.
"He died so you may live. He died so you may be successful. He died so you may do what you can do if you are at your best – which is save people, which is bring about a better future. He did not die so you could sacrifice yourself stupidly. Be clever. Be good. Be ruthless, yes, but don't be an idiot. You want to honor his memory? So succeed. So do what it takes. And if gathering more strength, collecting more support, keeping back to fight another day, then, for the love of god, do it!"
His fingers were digging themselves into her arms painfully, and he was trembling, with rage and anger and a burning fire that seemed to consume him from within. He was breathing heavily, but he did not seem to find an immediate counterspell to the words she had thrown into his face.
Seconds passed and Éponine would have given much to know what was going on behind his eyes, but he remained silent, breathing and watching. At first, he stared into her eyes, a silent battle of gazes, until his began roaming, wandering over her face restlessly, more of a scrutiny than an act of war. And finally, finally, for a moment he closed his eyes.
His voice was rough and quiet when he released her from his grip, dropping his hands to his sides.
"I… should not have done this. I apologize for my behavior", he said.
Éponine, feeling tension seep out of her body, nodded once, and briefly.
"I accept", she answered. "Forgiven, forgotten." It was easy, somehow, and she wondered why.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, looking at her before, with a small huff of a laugh, he averted his gaze again, turning towards the rough cobblestones.
"Sometimes I…", he began, but didn't finish his sentence, instead starting anew as he straightened again, trailing his gaze to something that only he could see again.
"I have to thank you for your honesty, Éponine. I recognize it for the rare gift that it is." He gave a wan, almost sad smile. "Although the medicine, I will admit, is quite bitter."
She tried to intercept, to soften the impact of his words, but he raised a hand and silenced her effectively.
"Don't", he said, almost softly, incredibly at odds with his seething rage just moments before, and then, voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't desecrate it."
He turned towards her again and held her gaze, a peculiar expression now wandering over his face. For a moment, he seemed to struggle for words, and when he finally spoke, they were simple enough.
"Thank you, Éponine", he reiterated, softly. "Surprising, courageous, invaluable Éponine."
Now it was her turn to be lost for words. His voice carried a notion she had not yet heard before, and the appreciation, the depth of it, came so unexpected that she had no idea how to respond to it. Some thanks seemed to be in order, or grand words, or a gesture, but none seemed to be forthcoming, and all she could do was breathe, and listen to her heart beat.
Enjolras being Enjolras, however, he recovered quickly.
"Let us go then", he said, seriously, but with so much less fury, "and see if we can put these thoughts of yours into action, shall we?"
The return to normality was almost a gift, and Éponine took it gratefully, falling in step beside him as, again, they turned to lead on the crowd.